See
how they run! The school yard was about thirty five meters square
and in it were about thirty five galloping mustangs masquerading as
boys. The activity was so frenetic that at first I found it hard
for my eye to follow any one given youngster because he would be cut off
from my view almost instantly by the flying bodies of half a dozen
others. There was a vortex of collective activity which seemed to
be going clockwise for awhile but which would suddenly reverse itself
and be seen to be going anti-clockwise. There was shouting and
laughing and wrestling and running and marble shooting and hooting and
basket balls being thrown about: In short, there were boys gone mad with
the midday island sunlight and the sounds of their own joyousness.
There were short boys and tall boys, slim ones and stout ones, dark
skins and light skins, there were all kinds of boys and all kinds of
sights and sounds that seemed healthy and youthful and wonderfully
innocent. My heart ached when I thought of the dreary school yards
of New York, the cement playing fields of that urban jungle. It
ached when I compared the robust, animated faces of the boys before me
with the unsmiling faces of the dispirited children of my native
metropolis, compared their hopeless imitation of vitality with this hive
of boundless energy, compared this environmental celebration of air so
pure one could almost drink it, with the dour, prison-like atmosphere in
New York and its all too frequent endemic odour of garbage. Here there
was life bubbling over like golden champagne. Here there was
reason to rejoice, even to nourish a dim, optimistic hope for the
future.
In
the school yard, one boy began to catch my eye as he circled around with
the others. Of all of them, he was the only one who seemed to be
aware of himself as others saw him, which was not to say that he was not
as involved as the others in unselfconscious boyishness. But there was a
certain glint of objectivity and humorous self regard which peeped
through from time to time. A half smile at himself, a half smile
at something else, a half smile at nothing in particular. Here was
a boy who, at about age eleven, was able to view himself, and the world
around him, objectively. Here was a boy who had insight and style
and who soon emerged as the clear leader of the group. Here was
the boy who I hoped would become my ‘Juanito’. He had not the
trace of an idea, of course, that such a transformation of his identity
was about to be offered to him. And I had not the trace of an idea
of whether or not he or his family would accept my offer to effect it.
And
then the teacher of the class appeared. A more appropriate type to
manage these boys would be hard to find. He was bearded, buoyant,
brave and bright, and the boys all knew he would treat them right.
He was quick to see where my interest lay, and he chuckled to himself
and walked away. He went up to my boy and he called him out, and
the two of them walked right over to me.
Catalina introduced us all to each other with an adroitness and
efficiency of word that one would have expected only from a long time
professional translator. It was then that I learned the name of my
boy. His name was Alberto, and when he heard my name, he smiled at
its foreign sounding quality. His handshake was manly. It
felt sincere. The nuances were promising. We had been surrounded by all
the boys in the meanwhile, who were consumed with curiosity. They
plainly wanted to know what the foreigner was all about. Catalina
obliged. She began by explaining the reason for my tardy
appearance. The story of the sheep that had plunged into my car
was relished. The boys shouted questions at us, giving little time for
answers. Into their simple, uneventful, village lives a foreigner
whose car had killed a sheep was a diverting event, an incident of
titillating interest. They wanted detail, and Catalina gave it to
them; she described the sound and feel of the impact as the sheep’s body
collided with the car, the blood on the bonnet, the sheep’s feet jerking
in pain, the lot. And then, with an apologetic smile to me, she
even described my deep distress and anxiety over the affair. This
brought instant approval from her audience and, when she had finished, a
round of supportive applause. It was all very reassuring to a
stranger in San Carlos.
But
now we had reached the nitty gritty of the affair. It was time to
explain to them the real purpose of my presence in their school yard.
There we all stood in a close circle, in the streaming sunlight, in the
open air so pure one could almost drink it, surrounded by rolling green
hills and distant purple mountains, with the sea only minutes away.
And into this known ambiance, into this common treasure, into the lives
of these boys there was suddenly introduced the astounding idea of a
creative literary project, an idea so new, so unexpected, so
revolutionary, in fact, that at first it was hard for them to grasp that
I was there to ask one of them to become the major part of it.
When
at last it was grasped, when at last they could understand that there
would be playacting and directed photography, when they realized that
the project could take weeks, months even, their rural sense of the
commercially productive use of time seemed to be insulted, and they
shied away from the idea. Catalina reported that they felt no
family would want their son to be absented from his responsibilities
around the farm for so long and for such a non-revenue productive
reason. I could see they would soon be playing in the school yard
again. I could see that making books was a no-go with the boys.
But,
it appeared, that was not so with Alberto. He looked me straight
in the eyes and told me he was indeed very much interested but would
have to think about it. If he decided affirmatively, he said, he
would then ask his parents to meet with me and we could discuss the
whole matter. Having said his piece, he said good bye to us and he
was off like a shot to join the others who had drifted away while we
talked.
Catalina then took me in tow, signalling that it was all over, and I
found myself at her mother’s bar where coffee and talk rang ‘round.
That was when I met Anita, Catalina’s mother. Her face was doughy white,
intelligent and patient, all at once. Her life had been tragically
touched by the Spanish civil war and though more than twenty five years
had passed since that catastrophic conflict, she seemed still to be
living in its shadow. I shall never forget her confidences which
slowly came my way as the years passed and she grew to trust me.
She seemed in need of speaking of her experiences and I had long learned
to be a good listener. So we were, initially, well suited to each
other, and I soon had her blessing with regard to Catalina’s working
with me on our book
She
had an instant grasp of the its purpose, of which she strongly approved,
and, having come that far, it was not hard for her to encourage both of
us to a full commitment. It was from Anita that I learned of
another possible translator, since Catalina could not be expected to be
always on hand. He had only recently returned from America where
he had been a short order cook in a ‘diner’ for many years. Because of
his long residence abroad he could be expected to be fluent in English.
His name was Juan den Xico, pronounced, “Chico”, and he turned out to be
a colourful and dependable co-worker. He was a much older man, said
Anita, with a certain air, who had returned to the island with his
accumulated ‘fortune’, and he had married a quite young woman shortly
after his return. It was clear that I should make of that what I
pleased.
A
diner is a curiously American restaurant institution. It developed
from the original use of a real railway car as a crude dining room for
railway workers. The long, narrow, railway car construction style
became characteristic of all purpose-built diners in later years, and to
this day, diners are very popular in the country. The food is
always hot, plentiful and relatively inexpensive. But most of all
it is FAST. Your order sits before you so quickly you lose no
waiting time during your brief lunch hour. And so the backbone of
the diner’s staff is therefore the chef. He is always of a special
breed. He is called a Short Order chef. His specialty is
speed and his food-ordering language, which he creates himself and
teaches to the rest of the staff, is original. Most of all it is
instantly intelligible and time saving. “Burn one!”, for example, is the
order to indicate coffee, black. “Adam and Eve on a Raft,” is the
order for fried eggs. And so on. Listening to the orders
being hurled to and fro in a diner can be a diversion of high hilarity.
Some people in America spend a good deal of time sampling the colour of
the language among dozens of diners. And so I looked forward to meeting
Juan den Xico with nostalgic overtones. I had always loved eating
in diners, myself. Would he have the real stuff? |